Collateral Damage - Marc Cerasini [77]
Just then, Noor spied Dubic. "You have news?"
"Good news," Dubic said. "Our operative is on the way to Newark International in a chartered plane — with the device. I'm going to the airport now to pick them up."
"Why the delay?" Noor demanded.
"Ungar told me the part came from NATO military stores. Difficult to replace, though he managed to do it."
"Take the Hummer," said Noor. "I'll send someone with you."
Dubic nodded. "How about Tanner?" He looked around for the muscular, charismatic black man with the shaved head, but failed to see him.
"Tanner's not here," said Noor. "I sent him to Manhattan to pick up your friend, the Albino."
Dubic glanced around the basement for a second choice, but Montel Tanner was about the only man he'd ever liked in this group. The remaining pool consisted of twitchy felons and adolescent gang members — sociopathic personalities all.
"I'll go myself," he said. "It's better that way."
Dubic snatched the Hummer's keys from one of Noor's wild-eyed lieutenants. He could feel the crazy cultist staring daggers in his back as he walked to the hole cut into the basement wall, and entered the dimly lit sewer. The tunnel was dark and damp and nearly a block long.
The stench was overpowering, and though Dubic was not particularly tall, he had to crouch to prevent brushing his blond crew cut against the filth-covered ceiling. Water trickled along the floor. In the shadows, Dubic could hear rats scurrying.
Relieved to be out of the horrid pit, Dubic emerged in another brightly lit basement a few moments later. More of Noor's brown-skinned followers clustered around a moderately sized tanker truck that was parked in the back of the interior space, away from the makeshift laboratory.
Dubic thought about the vehicle's deadly contents and shuddered.
He climbed into the shiny black Hummer and gunned the engine. He drove up the ramp, and the door opened automatically. As he swerved off Crampton Street toward Howard Boulevard, Dubic pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and tossed it onto the dash.
When he reached the highway, he'd contact the Albino. But first he had to get this monster American vehicle through these littered ghetto streets.
* * *
1:35:21 A.M. EDT
Peralta Storage
One block south of 1313 Crampton Street
Newark, New Jersey
Tony checked his watch, reached for his cell phone, and hit speed dial.
"O'Brian here."
"It's Almeida." Tony was sitting in the shadows, his back against a run-down brick row house across the street from the abandoned warehouse, just a block away from the Thirteen Gang's reputed headquarters. "That black Hummer I told you about eighty minutes ago. It just departed the location, heading east."
"You sure it was the same one?" Morris recited the license plate.
"Yeah," said Tony. "Same one. I got a look at the driver this time through the windshield. Caucasian, male, blond crew cut, black leather jacket."
"Okay..." On the other end of the line, computer keys tapped. "I've logged it," said Morris. "Any other activity?"
"Nothing," said Tony, glancing up and down the block.
"It's as dead as a morgue around here."
"Deputy Director Foy still with you?"
"Yeah."
Tony glanced at the slight woman slumped at his side. Ten minutes into their stakeout, she'd nodded off, her red-haired head hitting his shoulder. After everything she'd been through, he figured she could use the rest and didn't bother waking her.
Morris spent a minute updating Tony on things at his end. Finally, they ended the call, and Judith Foy stirred.
"What's happening?" she said through a yawn.
"I checked in with Morris O'Brian. The black Hummer just left. And according to O'Brian, CTU New York dug up another mole — Peter Randall."
"Oh god."
"Morris is going to contact Jack, let him know what we've observed. He might even ask us to infiltrate. How are you feeling? Are you up to this?"
Judith sat up straight, rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "My ribs are still a little sore, but I'm good to go."
"You sure?"
"Listen, Almeida. These scumbags killed